Cake at Dawn
by kniss
Summary: She's overwhelmed, so naturally, Peeta teaches Katniss how decorate - cakes, that is. She doesn't know how she got here. [set in Catching Fire]


_Set sometime in Catching Fire. _

* * *

The sky is a dark shade of muted orange when the door to the grand Victors' Village home opens, and a ratty boot sneaks out from the cracked door – the rest of Katniss follows, her body wrapped well in warm, thick layers. The cold winter air bites at her cheeks, and she's briefly convinced the freezing temperature has increased tenfold since she'd gone to bed. Katniss momentarily considers going back inside.

It's early, though; too early to expect neither her mother nor Prim to be awake, and the house was eerily quiet when she'd been leaving, the kind of eerie that seemed to reaffirm the bleak feeling of incomparable loneliness – which is exactly how she's ended up outside, being slapped in the face by bitter wind. Katniss wraps her heavy gray scarf around her neck once more and steps down from the doorway when the flicker of a light catches her eye. Peeta's window.

Her original intention had been to go for a quick walk through the desolate little "village" in an effort to clear her mind: anything but lay in her disgustingly and beautifully decorated bed to stare into a void of wretched possibilities, all of which are cloaked in fear and surrounded by luxury she's convinced she doesn't deserve. But, the light in Peeta's window catches her eye, and she pauses to consider her loneliness.

Holding up a gloved hand to shield from the wind, Katniss tries not to feel stupid when she takes steps in the direction of the light, and in the few paces it takes her to arrive at the door she makes an executive decision not to knock. She enters the house the same way she'd exited hers – quiet and still, as if hunting. What a morbid comparison.

"Peeta?" her voice is hushed when she presses the door closed upon entering, "Are you awake?" What a stupid question. He is now.

Sure enough, he is. Peeta emerges from another room, patting floured hands on a dusty apron draped across his chest. Confusion is scrabbled across his face and his blonde eyebrows furrow, "Katniss? Is everything alright?" She opens her mouth to reply, but Katniss is at a loss for words of which Peeta takes for a bad sign: "What's going on? Where's Haymitch?"

"Everything's fine," she finally replies, pushing past him without another word, as if intentionally enhancing his confusion. Peeta's voice comes from behind her with distant concern; "It's before dawn."

Katniss is unfazed when she retorts "People can do things before dawn," and she makes her way into the kitchen, which is powdered with various pale shades of dust which she assumes is flour or yeast. Bowls clutter the counter, and an unknown orange substance is spilt on the floor. She crinkles up her nose and speaks softly: "Who rampaged your kitchen?"

Perhaps it could have been humorous if the possibility of the Capitol swooping in and destroying District 12 wasn't a constant threat that hummed in the back of Katniss's mind.

"I'm baking." Peeta has recognized she's in no immediate danger and his voice falls flat. Nevertheless, he regards her with gentle eyes and an almost welcoming air.

Katniss drags her hand along the table, tracing a circle in powder with a callused finger, and shrugs, "No kidding." She swipes her hands together to rid the dust from her palms.

Peeta doesn't prod her any further yet. He knows. Perhaps he doesn't know exactly _why _she's lurking in his house before five in the morning, but he knows that she must be there for a reason; and he knows that whatever reason is not one she'll come out and say. Rather, he watches her momentarily, paying special attention to the lines that form around her beautiful eyes as she studies his workspace, before delving back into his previous work. He washes his hands before offering: "Would you like to frost a cake?"

Staring, Katniss's eyes flicker at his suggestion. She knows Peeta is well aware that she would most likely destroy any vague path of a pattern, or mix colors, or _something _of the sort; then it's as if he reads her mind when he continues, "It's just for fun."

Nothing is _fun _anymore. But, as Peeta holds out some sort of metal spatula, and Katniss can see his amiable helpfulness in his eyes. He's trying to take her mind off of things, and for a moment she wonders how he knows her so well. Nodding, she takes the utensil and offers a grateful thank you before heading over to the large lump of white frosting that she assumes is the cake in question.

"You can smooth out the frosting to start," begins Peeta, "All you have to do is swipe the smooth side of that along the cake so there are no wrinkles in the base frosting." It seems simple enough. If she can make the most intricate of snares, she can surely complete this task, and Katniss goes to work while Peeta fetches something from a cabinet.

After the Games, some sponsors in the Capitol sent him an abundance of fancy baking equipment. So long after, and he still enjoys baking for the people of District 12, often surprising families with beautifully decorated cakes or fresh bread. Katniss always enjoys when his face lights up so avidly as he presents one of his creations to someone who needs it far more than they do.

She's become so focused on the task at hand that when Peeta sets down a bowl of orange frosting – the same kind of what she'd seen on the floor – that clatters loudly on the counter, she jumps. Concern flashes in Peeta's eyes briefly, but he doesn't ask her if she's okay, because she's not. He's not, either. And that's that.

"That looks great," he says, gesturing to the blanket of smooth frosting across the cake. "You'd think you've learned from a professional."

A faded smile quickly finds itself tugging her lips when she replies: "I did."

He moves the orange bowl of frosting, as well as one full of a dim yellow, closer to them and their cake. Dumping two paintbrushes into the glass containers, he thinks out loud, "We could make a sunset," and before she replies, he flicks his gaze up to her and speaks more directly. "Would you be okay with a sunset?"

"Peeta, you do realize I can't paint anything." It's not a question.

His laugh that follows is soft and ephemeral, but it _is _a laugh, and her heavy heart lifts - even if just for a moment. "You've not tried yet; therefore I don't believe you." Moving the yellow bowl towards her, he nods his head, "Come on. I'll start."

He dips a brush in the yellow frosting – though she wonders if it would be too watery to consider frosting, as it looks more like dye, or paint – and swipes so casually across the bottom of the cake that Katniss only grows further discouraged. Peeta continues to swipe around to form a half-circle, a blurry shape of a sun peeking from the horizon. Katniss watches as if mesmerized, and he notices, proceeding to gesture towards the bowl of orange. She shakes her head.

"Peeta, I _can't paint. _We've well established this."

"So? I'll teach you. Everyone can paint."

"That's a blatant lie," she retorts with a scowl, and both of them chuckle a bit – but, he's seriously not letting up, and Katniss reluctantly wraps her fingers around the paintbrush. She tentatively dips it in the quiet color.

When she finally goes to bring said paintbrush to the cake, much to her dismay, the orange drips from the paintbrush while over the cake, blotting ugly splotches onto the already painted yellow sun. It's a violent interruption. Immediately pulling back her paintbrush and slamming it into the paint, Katniss gives Peeta an unamused scowl; "See? I told you. I've already ruined it before touching the cake."

And Peeta, being Peeta, stifles a laugh – but no, no, he won't laugh at her, so he takes a deep breath before shaking his head, "You haven't ruined it! Look, here, we'll add depth with some lowlights—" Katniss still looks unamused, but Peeta continues to speak before she has the chance to deny anything. "Seriously, look, it will be fine."

He uses a previously yellow brush to blend the two colors together a little bit more: luckily, the orange splotches had landed in a place that doesn't look too weird when Peeta swirls them together. It _does_ look like a lowlight, or a shadow, and once again Katniss is rather impressed. He smiles once more and gestures to the orange:

"Try again."

And she does.

It goes better, this time, though she doesn't feel anywhere close to being a cake-decorating prodigy. Peeta goes in a few times to blend again, layering the sugary dye and leaving Katniss in hidden awe at the power of the brush while in his hand. After affirming for her to try some blending on her own, he steps away to mix a blue-purple color.

"See? You're doing well."

"I'm not sure well is the word I'd use to describe it."

He slides another bowl to them, wiping off a used brush and mixing the color. It's a lovely hue of purple, and the depth of a blue reflects from a flickering candle nearby. Tapping excess color from the brush, Peeta looks at her, his eyes soft, and there's a vague hint of happiness at the corner of his lips.

"It's trickier when you add a cool color against warm colors, usually, because you don't want it to overpower the others," he explains, and Katniss listens. "I usually keep blues and purples pretty muted, because they end up pretty powerful against the frosting. Try not to get too much on your brush."

Then, he demonstrates, carefully swiping a layer of the blue-purple above the orange. She watches intently and realizes he's right – not that she doubted him – but the color certainly is striking in contrast to the others. Peeta goes back in with a brush full of orange to once again layer, hoping to aid in the transition. He hands the brush to her when he's finished.

"Your turn."

She tries. And she fails miserably. Her swipe of purple is harsh and out of place, sinking into the frosting and looking like smashed berries angrily atop a sunset. When she curses under her breath, Peeta shakes his head.

"Here; you just pushed too hard. I'll show you." When she reaches to put the brush back in the bowl, he catches her hand in his, and places his fingers around hers. They're holding the brush together, now, and Katniss's gaze flicks up to him and to the cake.

He guides her hand with his own, moving closer, and does the work as they paint; his fingers are talented and gentle, and she can feel the precision he uses as he continues. An annoying flutter finds itself settled in her stomach somewhere, and she takes a breath. "See?" he says, his voice hushed and curling sweetly into her ear, "It just takes a gentle hand." They paint the rest of the purple like that, gentle, his hand atop of hers, leading the way.

Although he'd follow Katniss anywhere, right now, she's following him. And that is completely okay with her.

They use this system for the rest of the sky, which she's chosen to be colored blue, and the sun is rising by the time they're done. The cake's design is lopsided, and Katniss's mishaps are clearly spelled out in splotches and uneven brush-strokes, but it's a sunset nevertheless. And, throughout it all, Katniss felt so many of her worries melt away that she's a bit dizzy. Peeta gives a crooked smile.

"I told you you could do it," he insists, gesturing to the cake, "We could have some to celebrate."

To Katniss, though, she'll never shake the feeling of guilt when consuming these goods that are largely attributed to the Capitol while those around her starve. Once again Peeta reads her mind. "We'll take the rest to the square later, yeah?"

"It's dawn—"

He cuts her off. "People can eat cake at dawn."

Their eyes meet, and she lets out a content sigh, brushing a few stray hairs out of her face and sitting down on the nearest chair and fixing her gaze on some unknown object in the distance. Moments later, Katniss hears Peeta sit down next to her, and his voice finds it way into her ears.

"Katniss." The way he says her name is soft, gentle, kind; "Why'd you come here this morning?"

She sighs, rubbing her temple with one of her hands – with the other she taps the table that she stares at, memorizing the pattern of the grain and thinking of all the work that must have went into it in order to benefit those in the Capitol.

Her voice is soft, and her words settle in the air, looming. "I was suffocating in that house, Peeta. Everything is from the Capitol, and – I don't know." When she pauses to collect her words, he waits patiently. "Everywhere I look, it's the Games. I see Rue in Prim, I see Cato in the woods, I." Katniss doesn't know how else to vocalize this, so she bites her lip furtively and looks at him. Peeta understands. He always understands. "I needed to get away."

"You're welcome here," replies Peeta, "always."

It's now when Katniss realizes how incredibly exhausted she is. Her eyelids suddenly feel weighted, and her chest heavy – she yawns once before, out of habit, leaning to rest her head on his shoulder. Her hair nestles like a puzzle piece against the soft warmth through his shirt with obvious familiarity, and she feels her muscles go deliciously slack as she gives in and lets herself lean against him fully. She can almost see his smile.

"Thank you," she replies, and her voice is exhausted and thick with gratitude.

They fall asleep like that; watching the sunrise.


End file.
